


Your bed should be a refuge

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Sex, Bisexual John Watson, First Time, Good Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Married Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mary Morstan is Not an Assassin, Mary's OK with it all, NOT Sherlock/Mary, Polyamory, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 04:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6641746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John finally face their mutual attraction, but is it too late? John's married (and happily so). Is there any way that John can have it all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your bed should be a refuge

**Author's Note:**

> This is VictorianLock set after The Abominable Bride (TAB).  
> For those who don't like Mary, sorry. She's not an evil bitch in this (and I don't really think she was in TAB).
> 
> However, rather than keeping our boys apart, she's instrumental in getting them together.
> 
> Unlikely in Victorian times, with Victorian sensibilities? Yep, yeah *nods*, but...Meh... True love will always win out.

**1895**

  
When Sherlock lowered his steepled fingertips, night had fallen outside the windows of 221B and Mrs Hudson had clearly been in to light the gas lamps. Opposite, John sat quietly, deeply engrossed in whichever book he was currently reading.

“I’d have thought you’d have left several hours ago, won’t Mary be waiting for you?” the detective asked; the question clearly not a suggestion.

“She’s away with several of her lady-friends. They’re taking in the waters in Bath, apparently.” He cocked his head to the side thoughtfully, “At least, that’s where she _said_ they were going. I’m not quite as sure as perhaps I would have been before that case with the bride. For all I know, your brother has her out doing his _leg-work_.”

“So, in other words you lack the impetus to return home,” Sherlock’s mouth quirked up at the corner.

“She gave the maid the week off. With no-one to cook or clean, this seemed the ideal solution,” John delivered his rationale with a hint of humour, “I did mention it to you, Holmes.”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, “And I suspect I gave it the attention it deserved. In any case, I’m sure Mrs Hudson will relish the opportunity to cook for an appreciative audience again, I fear I don’t pay her cooking the attention she feels it deserves.”

John chuckled softly and closed the book he’d been reading, marking the place carefully with a soft leather bookmark, “I assume I’m welcome to use my old room?”

“Ahh,” a sharp look of discomfort crossed his face as he averted his eyes, “that may be problematic, Watson.”

John’s lips thinned and there was a twitch of his moustache, “I’ve been gone a month. Good God, Holmes, what could you have possibly done to my room in a _month_?”

“Calm down, Watson. The belongings you left behind are perfectly safe, they’ve just been… relocated.”

“Relocated!” John snapped.

“Well, I say relocated,” Sherlock’s head bobbed to the side briefly, “let us say, reallocated.”

“You gave my belongings to your damnable Baker Street irregulars, didn’t you?”

“Some of them,” Sherlock replied sheepishly.

“ _Some_ of them!” John’s eyes flashed.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in affronted challenge, “ _Most_ of them. I don’t see what the fuss is about, if you want them, I’ll have them returned.”

John stood and began pacing the room stiffly , “Well, I hardly want them returned _now_!”

Sherlock stood, meeting John’s anger with frustration, “Then I don’t see what the problem is!”

John stepped up and poked Sherlock in the chest hard enough to make the taller man shuffle back a step, “The problem is, Holmes, that they were my belongings and I quite liked them.”

Sherlock frowned and murmured petulantly, “Then perhaps you should have taken them with you.”

John paused and stared up into the detective's face, caught between anger and shock. After a heartbeat, anger won out, “Be that as it may, it leaves one of us without a place to sleep, and I deduce that it is going to be you, goodnight Holmes,” and with that, John turned and strode down the hallway, slamming the door to Sherlock’s bedroom behind him.

**

As John tossed and turned under Sherlock’s rich bedding, he wondered if this plan wasn’t such a good idea.

It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable, in fact the opposite was true. The feather pillow cradled his head just so, curling around his face and releasing a lingering scent of Sherlock’s woodsy aftershave whenever he turned. When he closed his eyes and shifted, it felt almost as if the man himself had cupped his cheek and leaned in a little too close.

More disturbing was the altogether more musky and human scent that assailed him whenever he snuggled down further under the sheets. He rather suspected that Sherlock had a tendency to tuck the sheet unto the hollow of his underarm, so prevalent was the scent along the top edge. It reminded him too much of rare and keenly missed moments after a frantic chase through London Streets, ending up confined together in sweaty camaraderie in a handsome cab on the way home.

With a frustrated huff, John rolled on to his other side, only making the situation worse as the familiar odours wafted up again.

It wasn’t that he harboured any illicit thoughts about his friend, he told himself firmly. He was, after all, a married man, and a respectable member of society. To even entertain such thoughts would be… well it would be inappropriate. He wasn’t unaware that such activities occurred; after all, the Afghanistan war was a harsh and brutal place and if there were moments when brother-in-arms sought out a brief reprieve from the loneliness and solitude, well… That was only to be expected, wasn’t it? One need look no further into the motives than that.

And in any case, his inner voice chided, it wasn’t as if his natural inclination tended toward men. He was married, and happily so. He conceded that Sherlock’s lean form and graceful movements may give some men pause to consider him attractive, and the glossy sheen of his hair and startling eyes may give some men cause to stare. But on the occasions that John had reached to straighten a collar or brush a sooty mark from a prominent cheekbone, that was just to preserve the untarnished image he’d created of the refined genius in his stories. Nothing more.

John rolled onto his back with a sigh. It was just that Holmes often seemed so alone. So quick to deride and dismiss, Holmes isolated himself from people before they had the opportunity to discover the fragile yet enormous heart John knew was protected behind the aloof and massive intellect. John’s sympathy often bordered on a physical thing, curling within his chest and gripping him oddly at sometimes painfully inopportune moments. There was nothing to be ashamed of in that, was there? Simply the empathetic reaction of one dear friend to another.

He’d tried to ask, more than once, desperate to reassure himself that Holmes had some outlet for what he was sure was years of very natural, pent-up emotion. Someone who would hold him close, touch him tenderly and give him much needed release from what he had no doubt were substantial yet carefully concealed passions.

As John shifted again, an unasked for image accompanied the lingering scent of Sandalwood and sweat and he groaned at the thought of jet black hair, free of its daily coat of Macassar, bouncing against a pale forehead and the blue eyes wide with passion. John briefly ran a hand down the length of his own torso and indulged for a moment the thought of how the whippet-thin body of Sherlock would feel under his fingers instead.

With an angry huff of breath at his own weakness, he turned onto his back and tucked his errant hands underneath himself, “Stop it, Watson. Idle fantasy leads to nothing but ruin,” he muttered to himself as he began stoically counting sheep.

**

John woke sometime during the night, still surrounded by Sherlock’s scent, which he thought probably explained the lurid dream he’d awoken from. In the altogether irrational world that dreams are wont to muster, not only had he and Holmes had been naked, they’d been engaged in the most depraved of activities in the back of a very public hansom cab. For some unknown reason that he didn’t wish to dwell on, his unconscious mind had helpfully supplied what seemed a very plausible version of the exact groan the detective would likely make as John had lazily fisted his cock in time with the bouncing and jostling of the wheels.

That’s what had woken him in the end; that imagined groan and so help him, he could _still_ hear it, playing over and over in his head. Deep, rich, and broken with surrender. John had never heard such a sound pass Holmes’ lips and, with an unexpected pang of regret that took him by surprise, conceded he likely never would.

Realising that sleep was likely to elude him for the remainder of the night, John rose from the warm sheets, splashed his face with cold water from the ewer and, once the very noticeable evidence of his rather stimulating dream had abated, pushed open the door and returned to the sitting room.

**

Sherlock lay curled in his chair, arm stretched along the back to cushion his head as he snored softly in the awkward position. John suppressed a moment of guilt at forcing the man to seek his repose there.

“Holmes,” John lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, “Holmes, go to bed,” he murmured again.

With a long waking breath drawn through his nose, the detective's eyelids opened and he looked blurring toward the doctor, “John?” He mumbled on the intake of breath before shaking his head a little and correcting himself to the more formal, “Watson?”

John let the overly familiar use of his first name slip, “Go to bed, my dear Holmes. Your back won’t thank you for a night in the chair.”

Sherlock blinked again, still clearly attempting to pull himself back to wakefulness, “Can’t… Watson’s sleeping there.”

John smiled fondly at the way Sherlock referred to him in the third person, “No, he’s gotten up, so you can take the bed.”

“What? Why?” At the hint of a mystery to be solved, Sherlock’s alertness was returning swiftly, “Watson? What are you doing up?”

John stepped back, tensing slightly, “It doesn’t matter. Come on, up you get; Doctor’s orders, the clock’s just chimed two so you should get a few hours.”

Sherlock took the outstretched hand as John offered it and unfolded himself from the leather cocoon of his chair. They stood close for a moment, hands grasped a little too long and Sherlock again wondered what had disturbed Watson’s rest. There was something evasive in the way the shorter man was looking at him. He briefly wondered if his doctor had been rifling through his belongings in the seclusion of his bedroom. No, that didn’t explain it, John was familiar enough with his demands to retrieve all manner of object that breaching closed drawers would hold no guilt. But there was… Something.

“Until the morning then, doctor,” Sherlock breathed the words in a low whisper and considered the faint tremor in John’s grip at the tone. Looking more closely, he took in the continued tension in John’s shoulders. The uncommon discomfort in his proximity to Holmes’ person. There were signs of adrenaline that shouldn’t be evident at this late hour and straight from a restful sleep. _Perhaps_ … “Did you have a nightmare, Watson?”

John’s hand dropped away as he took a step back, alarm widening his eyes, “No! And stop deducing me when I’m half asleep, Holmes. It’s not… helpful.”

Reflexively, Sherlock took this new information; shock, refusal, offended obfuscation. As much as he’d like to respect John’s request to desist, he could easier cease breathing than stop accumulating facts. He dropped his eyes away in an attempt to respect his friend’s privacy and moved toward his room, “I apologise. I’ll leave you to your solitude, doctor.”

Behind him, a sigh and he heard John’s tired voice murmur, “Sleep well, Holmes.”

**

Well this won’t do at all, Sherlock thought as he tossed and turned in his bed.

It was bad enough that he’d been left with an unsolved mystery regarding his faithful friend, but John’s hours spent resting between his sheets had hopelessly tainted them with the subtle and not undesirable scents he associated with the stalwart man.

The pine scent of his moustache wax seemed to have saturated the pillow beneath his head, and there was something… metallic? fireplace? Whatever it was, it mixed with the medicinal rub the Doctor used when his shoulder ached and Sherlock instinctively associated the smell with John. It now infused the sheets where he held them, tucked up beneath his chin.

Oh, this was intolerable! He rolled onto his back, hoping for some clear air, away from the pillow.

Damn Watson, damn his solicitous, caring nature, his combative, confronting moods, his determination to constantly challenge and confound him. It was as if the universe had considered how to sculpt the perfect help-mete and friend for Holmes and then wrap it up in the shape of a soldier-come-doctor with sandy hair and broad shoulders.

John had asked, more than once, why Sherlock never desired a romantic partner. The agonising truth that he could admit to himself in private was that desire had already set up a restless, unhappy home in his soul, however doomed to failure that attachment may be.

Sherlock had known since he was a young man that his desires ran contrary to societies dictates. As a result, he’d taken the unpopular step of remaining a bachelor rather than subject a woman he may otherwise respect and admire to a loveless marriage with no likelihood of children. Similarly, he was not foolish enough to seek out an emotionless rendezvous with men who could very well spell his downfall, incarceration, or worse.

And this plan had been perfectly serviceable until Doctor John Hamish Watson had entered his life and, shortly after, set up residence in his heart. He’d hoped that with John’s marriage to Mary the infatuation may ease, but instead he found himself mentally speculating as to the nature, frequency and satisfaction of the Watson marital bed.

With a muttered curse, Sherlock swung his long legs out of the bed and paced back to the living room.

**

He found John serenely reading the previous day’s papers, a peaty curl of smoke wafting from the pipe clamped between his teeth. The soft light from the gas lamp brought the sharp point of his knuckles where they held the newsprint into sharp relief.

As Sherlock dithered in his study off the lounge, idly checking on flasks and beakers, the crisp rattle of glassware prompted the doctor to turn in his chair to peer into the gloomy room asking, “Couldn’t sleep either?”

Sherlock snuffled a noise that could be construed as either agreement or not and wandered into the sitting room, finally throwing himself down into his leather chair.

“What’s the problem,” John muttered around the pipe stem, lowering his paper, “too many thoughts spinning around in that big head of yours?”

“Something like that,” Sherlock huffed in response, “you’ve ruined my bed.”

John lifted a hand to remove the pipe from between his lips, “Pardon?”

Sherlock looked up, his brows rising as he realised that in his weariness he’d said the last out loud, “Ignore me, I mis-spoke.”

“No, you were quite clear, I just didn’t understand your meaning. How did I…ruin your bed?” John’s brows furrowed in interest.

Sherlock tipped his head to the side and closed his eyes, dragging in a long breath, “Dear God, how I wish I could delete things from other people’s heads. It’s past midnight, Watson, can’t you just let it drop?”

John’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully at Sherlock’s discomfort, “On one condition, if you won’t answer that question, then you must concede to answering another.”

Sherlock swiftly calculated the risk inherent in committing to an unknown compared with the certainty already in play. He rapidly considered a dozen plausible explanations as to how John might have ruined his bed while skirting around the inconvenient truth; that the smell of John lingering on his sheets was distractingly arousing. In the end, he simply winced and nodded.

John seemed surprised that Sherlock had capitulated, and having been given a free ticket to the deepest recesses of Sherlock’s brain, appeared to be momentarily shocked to silence. Sherlock simply steepled his hands beneath his lips and waited for the inevitable axe to fall.

John opened his mouth, then closed it again as he clearly rethought his question. He repeated the movement and it was on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue to ask if he was planning a new career as a goldfish when John’s question spilled into the silent room.

“Why do you disapprove of my marriage, Holmes?”

Sherlock resisted the urge to breathe a sigh of relief as he internally celebrated the dodging of a rather catastrophic bullet. This he could handle; this he could address in a manner that maintained the illusion that he sought no more from John than friendship.

“I don’t disapprove of your marriage,” he said simply. _There, crisis averted_ , he thought.

But John pushed again, “No, you do. You put on a good act, but I know you, Holmes. You were perfectly civil at the ceremony, but you’ve barely set foot in our home since the event and you are clearly uncomfortable when Mary and I are together in your presence.”

Sherlock blinked slowly, “Perhaps you should leave the detective work to me, at times Watson you are only marginally more effective than Scotland Yard.”

John’s lips thinned, “You said you’d answer, so damn it, at least be honest with me. Is it Mary you don’t like? I thought you found her passably intelligent for a woman.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “More than passably”, _That’s true enough_ , he thought. In fact, there was a fire and spirit in the new Mrs Watson that Sherlock respected most highly; and wasn’t that part of the problem? While John had been surrounded with shallow, simple-minded examples of the fair sex, none had been able to compete for his attention. Mary… Well, Mary was a force to be reckoned with.

“Then what, Holmes,” John’s voice softened, using the stillness of the small hours to encourage an atmosphere of confidentiality.

 _If I be damned, then let it be for the truth_ , Sherlock thought dismally, “I’m learning to do without.”

“Without? Without what, Holmes?” John asked.

Sherlock lifted his eyes to John’s, achingly vulnerable at last, “Without you, John.”

There was a moment of confusion in John’s face. Confusion at the words, at the use of his first name, at the fragile expression on Sherlock’s face; impossibly intimate between two men, even in private. He leaned back for a moment, chin tucked back against his chest as he processed the admission, “I don’t – Holmes?”

"I knew I'd lost you the moment you slipped the ring on her finger.” Now he’d started, Sherlock didn’t seem to be able to stop the words pouring out, “Quite right too. A man of your age should be married, start a family, seek out all those things that are normal and… acceptable.”

“Holmes?” John tried to intervene, but Sherlock rambled on.

“I couldn’t expect you to remain here at Baker Street with me indefinitely. After all, what’s to hold you here, it’s not as if I could meet all your…” Sherlock trailed off searchingly before finally gritting out the word, “… needs.”

John rose silently from his chair and ran nervous fingers across his moustache as he watched his usually eloquent friend struggle to put his thoughts into words. Once again, the crushing solitude of Sherlock Holmes buffeted John and as the taller man moved from his chair to stand at the window shrouded by the shadowy curtains.

From beyond Sherlock’s turned back, John heard the detective’s words continue quietly, “While you were living here, I could _almost_ imagine… almost believe that we…” He leaned his forehead against the cold glass, “but that’s done now, no sense in dwelling on fantasy notions.”

John stepped closer, near enough to reach out and touch if he dared, “You had… are you saying you had _feelings_ for me, Holmes.”

“Have,” Sherlock corrected quickly before laying his clenched fist against the glass and making a frustrated noise at his own seeming inability to even moderately censor himself.

“My _dear_ Holmes,” John whispered wonderingly, “all this time.”

Sherlock turned around, looming, his warm breath drifting over John’s forehead, his eyes were dark, haunted and hopeless.

John tilted his head and looked up, “You never said; never even hinted.”

“Not the done thing, really.” Sherlock replied forlornly.

“I’m married now,” John murmured, his hands balling reflexively at his sides.

“I know,” the two words carrying despairing surrender.

“But if I weren’t, you’d have wanted,” John swallowed hard before adding, “you’d have _risked_ …?”

"Anything, everything," Sherlock’s blue eyes were unwavering, “for you… Everything.”

John nodded stiffly and held his gaze, “You should know I’d have wanted you to, Holmes. Take the risk, that is; but things aren’t so simple now.”

“They would never have been simple,” Sherlock muttered.

For a long minute the two men stood breathing into the same small space between their faces; Sherlock trembling gently in sorrow and John’s hand twitching slightly in restrained anxiety..

“Sherlock,” John finally whispered the over-intimate name and reached to lay a gentle hand on Sherlock’s side, steadying him as the taller man made a subtle, broken noise and his knees threatened to buckle at the hushed use of his first name.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock managed weakly, “I don’t mean to want this.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. I have some experience of what sometimes occurs between some men in the army. I always seemed to me that they were no more in control of their hearts than anyone else.” John ran a calming hand along Sherlock’s flank.

“You’re not repulsed by my… urges?” The question came hesitatingly as Sherlock lay his forehead against John’s, leaning into his touch but ready to pull back if John so much as flinched.

“I’d be a very poor excuse for a doctor, an even poorer friend, and a damnable hypocrite if I were. Repulsed?… No; a little _surprised_ perhaps,” John paused for a moment and thought, “No, I’m not entirely sure I’m even surprised. You’ve always been an anomaly; The great detective, so out of touch with people. Able to surmise and deduce the finest detail and yet completely oblivious to the human condition. Appearing so cold and aloof and now, all the while hiding all… _this_ from me. You’re a wonder to me, the depth of that hidden heart, it’s always astonished me, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock sucked in a ragged, gulping breath and John pulled the man to him, enclosing his lean frame in strong arms. Putting a hand to the back of Sherlock’s head, he pulled it down so it was cradled in the crook of his shoulder as Sherlock sighed and some of the tension in his shoulders eased at last.

“There you go, I’ve got you. We can have this at least,” John murmured against Sherlock’s hair. With its daily coat of Macassa washed away when he’d prepared for bed, the curls were short and soft and John indulged in the feeling for a moment, entirely at a loss as to how to proceed.

As Sherlock slumped against him, virtually using the doctor’s stocky frame to support him, John felt the taller man’s warmth bleed into him. Unlike his wife, Sherlock’s frame was lean, muscular and altogether lacking in the feminine curves of Mary. He could feel the sinewy strength in the muscles that ran either side of the detective's nobbled spine and found himself idly tracing their length before a strangled noise from the man in his arms stilled his hands.

“Sorry,” John tensed, embarrassed at the desperate restraint hidden in the noise, “Oh, I’m so sorry, that wasn’t fair of me at all. Touching you with such abandon.”

There was a stuttered intake of breath and Sherlock shifted uneasily, tugging away to create some space between them, “No, there’s no need, I shouldn’t…”

For a moment, John struggled between acquiescing to Sherlock’s attempt to distance himself, while his instincts shouted that if he let the man go now, Sherlock would never again allow his guard so low, and never allow John to peer so closely at his heart.

Sherlock murmured against John’s shirt before lifting his head and making eye contact, colour high in his cheeks, “This is… difficult for me.”

“I know,” John whispered, “and if it’s too much to bear, say the word and I’ll stop. I’ll let you go,” John held his gaze, calm and sure, “if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Sherlock muttered before shaking his head with a wry grin, “No, that’s not quite true. My problem is that the vast majority of things I want are far beyond acceptable bounds.”

It was good to see a sliver of humour creeping back into Sherlock’s tone and he encouraged it with a chuckle, “I dare say for someone with your encyclopaedic knowledge that may well be true. Will you indulge me in granting something I’ve wanted for some time?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up and he nodded warily.

“Might I call you Sherlock? Just here at Baker Street, when we’re alone. Would it be alright, would that go some way to tell you of my regard, or would it make things worse?” John had to firm up his grip at Sherlock’s hips as he shuddered and closed his eyes with a ragged breath.

The detective managed a shaky nod as if it took all the remaining emotional strength he had. Slowly, he reached out with long fingers and brushed them tentatively against John’s cheek reassuring himself that the man was still there, real and warm in front of him.

With a glance at the mantle clock, John raised a hand to cover Sherlock’s, “You look done-in. Will you try and get a few more hours sleep before dawn? We can talk more in the morning.”

His eyes still shut, Sherlock murmured dismally, “I can’t.”

Tugging the taller man toward his bedroom, John gently asked, “Why not?”

“I keep dreaming you’re there, with me,” now his desire was unmasked, Sherlock seemed more willing to admit the magnitude of the truth.

“I’d not begrudge you that. You need not fear judgement from me, not when I’ve been plagued with a similar affliction.”

Sherlock paused in his doorway and shook his head, “You’re too tolerant, Watson. You should not encourage this, not now I know there was a time once, when you felt the same.”

John reached to grip the sleeve of Sherlock’s robe, forestalling any further movement and stepped up to stand close, his voice dropping to whisper intimately, “Do not think for a moment that my feelings are relegated to the past, Sherlock. While it’s true I’m married, and I owe her my fidelity, do _not_ think me unaffected by this,” when Sherlock tried to back away, John tightened his fingers bunching the fabric in a fist, “I’d give you everything you want, and gladly. It mirrors everything I want, but you’re right, it’s _difficult_.”

Sherlock weighed the harsh honesty of John’s words together with the rictus grip on his sleeve. Calmly and firmly he reached down and unfurled John’s fingers one by one as they stared at where their hands touched. Once detached, he held John’s hand in his own as if unsure whether to let go.

Finally, John raised their joined hands and slowly pressed Sherlock’s fingers to his mouth, his moustache brushing as thin lips touched down on each one in turn as Sherlock’s mouth fell open with a surprised, panted breath.

“I does help, John,” Sherlock whispered, “It helps to know I’m not alone in this struggle,” John’s breath hushed across his damp knuckles, “and it _is_ a struggle,” he murmured as he watched John silently unfurl a single finger to suck it into his mouth and Sherlock moaned weakly.

“Good God, Watson,” Sherlock reflexively slipped back into the familiar name and it somehow seemed more erotic than the use of his first name would have been, “How I want you.”

“And yet we can’t,” John murmured, still nuzzling at Sherlock’s hand, a tone half confirmation and half plea for Sherlock to dispute it.

“Damn it, you’re not free, John,” Sherlock’s voice was thick and low, “I need you to stop.”

Sensing Sherlock had reached his limit, John regretfully released the hand and straightened, breaking some of the tension but not moving away, “then I’ll bid you goodnight, and wish you the very sweetest of dreams, my dearest of friends.”

**

Sherlock’s door closed behind him, granting the privacy and safety of the solid wood between them, blocking the urge to reach and touch further, and John drew in a harsh and ragged breath as he leaned against the barrier.

Dear God, what have we done? He thought, the feel of Sherlock’s fingers still buzzing against his lips. We should never have said those things, done those things. How can we possibly manage to maintain the farce of a mere friendship ever again?

Suddenly, he wished he were home with Mary. It was easy there, simple, unsurprising. He’d been grateful when Mary Morstan had entered his life offering stability, acceptability and an avenue to society’s normal expectations. She had been acceptably attractive, acceptably intelligent, acceptably pleasant and so John had found himself _acceptably_ married.

All the while he’d thought he could feed the fire in his soul with the remaining embers of his friendship with Sherlock Holmes. Unacceptably rude, unacceptably abrupt, and unquestionably, and in society’s view, _unacceptably_ , male. He’d comforted himself with the easy delusion that what he felt for the man was simple fondness perhaps enhanced by doctorly concern. His army years had presented many opportunities and he’d eluded them all, telling himself that any reaction he’d had was just the natural urge to scratch a long denied itch.

But Holmes… Holmes was something else entirely. To hear the man say that he felt for him, that he _wanted_ him. Sherlock had said he’d risk it all, his reputation, his freedom, his life; and John knew in his heart that if he’d known, he’d have done the same. Throw himself off that same damned precipice and to Purgatory with the result. Every look from Holmes that had hit him like a punch to the gut, or accidental touch that set his nerves aflame, he’d been able to brush them all off as dangerous and one-sided.

And _oh God_ , to now know it’s not. At this moment, Sherlock was on the other side of that door, alone, and tired, and… _wanting_. And he was here on the other side, frustrated and confused and… _angry_. Angry at the time lost, the opportunity and even the danger. The idea of tapping into Sherlock’s hidden passion, needing to keep it quiet, perhaps having to lay a firm hand over those plush lips to silence an unrestrained cry of exultation. Arousal fizzed through John’s veins and pooled low in his groin.

He spread a hand wide on the shiny door, the rich brown of the varnish catching what little light there was. He imagined Sherlock on the other side, despondent forehead bent to touch the wood, warm breath creating little patches of condensation on his side of the door. It would be so easy to knock, or to let himself in. He’d lead Sherlock to the bed, push him down… or let himself be pulled down… and forget about the world outside the door.

John’s hand curled to a fist, knuckles resting on the timber, fighting an internal battle between want and should. He lifted the fist and hovered an inch above the sounding board of the door and gritted his teeth. With a harsh huff of breath, he pulled his hand away and turned to lean his back against the door as he slid down it, frustrated tears threatening to rise. Their time was past, his commitments made. He closed his eyes and let his head drop toward his knees as exhaustion, both physical and mental sapped the last of his strength and he slipped into an uneasy sleep.

**

When Sherlock appeared the following morning, it was freshly washed and dressed, all signs of the previous night's revelations hidden from view under carefully tailored trousers, shirt and attitude.

John wasn’t faring so well, having been awoken from his position slumped messily at the foot of Sherlock’s door. For a moment Sherlock’s eyes had flashed with regret before he stepped lithely over him and strode to the sitting room calling back over his shoulder, “Awake Watson, Mrs Hudson will soon be here with our breakfast. It wouldn’t do for you to be lounging around as if you’d slept on the floor.”

"I did sleep on the floor," John muttered as he levered himself up and disappeared into Sherlock’s room to wash and freshen up his clothes as best he could.

By the time he returned, Sherlock was rapping the top off a soft-boiled egg as Mrs Hudson poured tea into a pair of cups. He took a seat at the table and tried not to appear as awkward as he felt.

“You know, if you planned to stay, Watson, you should have brought a change of clothes at least,” Sherlock dunked a shard of toast into the buttery yellow hole of the egg.

“I _expected_ to find my spare clothes still in my wardrobe upstairs,” John gave him a fond but exasperated look as he took his seat and as simply as that, their dynamic was restored. The easy banter and jibes cushioned with the underlying solidity of their friendship, “This looks lovely, Mrs Hudson.”

Their ‘not-housekeeper’ flashed a look toward Sherlock before replying, “Not over cooked then? Sherlock says – “

“Three minutes from boiling water, it’s not difficult,” he snapped back, dunking another piece of toast with rather more force than necessary.

“It’s perfect, Mrs Hudson, just perfect,” John cemented the opinion with a lavish slather of butter onto another slice.

“Stay as long as you like Doctor Watson,” another flash of eyes to Sherlock, this time accompanied by a disapproving pout, “Perhaps manners are contagious,” and with that, she departed amongst a clatter of yesterday’s cups and ashtrays.

The two men were silent for long moments until they heard the distinctive click of Mrs Hudson’s downstairs door before John finally succumb to giggles, stifling them with a fork full of baked beans.

“Stop it,” Sherlock muttered not lifting his eyes from the newspaper, “she’ll hear.”

John could see Sherlock was on the edge of laughter too, the lines beside his eyes crinkling with good humour above his twitching lips.

“Well we can’t have that,” John intoned in mock seriousness, “she might ruin the eggs entirely.”

Sherlock gave up the struggle and the rich chuckle resonated around the room, “Heaven forbid; our breakfast would be unsalvageable.”

"The fall of the British Empire would be close behind,” the laughter threatening the corners of John’s mouth and the wrinkles blooming at the corners of his eyes bracketed the reply.

“Disaster,” and with that decisive comment, silence fell between the two men, easy at first but growing in density as the seconds turned into minutes until John broke it.

“Are we going to talk about it?” He asked quietly.

“I don’t see there’s much to say, do you?” Sherlock replied carefully, avoiding John’s eyes.

“Sher – “

“You’ll return to Mary, I’ll remain here, we’ll see each other at crime scenes and our lives will continue much the same as they are now, I would assume,” The clipped words were toneless as Sherlock studied the newspaper, face tight.

“You can’t mean that, Holmes?” Something sharp bloomed in John’s chest.

Finally lifting his face to make eye contact, Sherlock stood suddenly, the chair toppling backward behind him to crash to the floor, “What would you have me do, John, I can’t have you.” As his voice broke at the last, he grabbed a salt cellar from the table and hurled it across the room to shatter against the wall before striding down the hall to slam his bedroom door behind himself, effectively ending the conversation.

 

**

Normality returned for some time, or what passed for normality in Sherlock and John’s life. Perhaps gazes lingered a little longer, phrases were more carefully judged to ensure there was no subtle subtext evident to onlookers, but on the whole, the situation seemed managed. The pair grabbed what little affection they could, having to content themselves with the briefest of touches and the knowledge that these precious morsels were savoured to slake their thirst.

Mary returned from Bath, John returned home and Sherlock buried himself in cases, calling on John’s help as often as he thought he could manage without Mary accusing her husband of spending more nights at 221 than at home.

Of course it couldn’t last, Sherlock thought, life couldn't be that kind. At some point, they were bound to slip, provide some evidence of a simmering something below the surface, and their daily fight to keep it controlled.

In the end, it was Mary, _it was always going to be Mary_ , and as Sherlock watched her sipping at her tea and sitting in John’s chair, he desperately tried to deduce the level of the cataclysm that was about to befall them.

_She’s come alone, while John has been sent out on errands. This is a discussion between the two of us, then. She hasn’t broached the topic with John. Not angry or embarrassed, simply… What… Simply unsure as to the ideal outcome. Outcome for whom? Outcome for her, for John… For… All of us? She loves John, loves him as much as I do. She wants him happy, knows that there’s a hunger in him she can’t feed… Danger… Risk… She’s tried, but he won’t let her… Not her role. Oh Mary, I underestimated you._

“Mr Holmes,” his name was polite, restrained and formal on her lips.

“Mrs Watson,” he replied in kind.

“You’ll have deduced why I’m here, I assume?”

"Mrs Watson, I find myself in the unusual situation of both being sure of my deductions and yet hesitant to voice them for fear of irreparably offending the wife of my dearest friend.”

Mary smiled, her lower lip pressed against the teacup held in a delicate hand.

“Mr Holmes, I find myself in a difficult position,” she lowered the cap to the side table, “I find myself upon your doorstep having to ask for a most unlikely favour.”

Without a word, Sherlock rose and stepped to the door, closing it against the chance they should be overheard before he returned to his seat, “This concerns your husband.”

“John, yes.” She nodded, “You would be aware, Mr Holmes, that John and I do not lead the most typical of lives.”

Sherlock thought of the critical role Mary played in the machinations of his brother’s schemes, “Indeed. Most irregular.”

“We are not a couple who seek out the normal in life, and as such, I find myself more interested in what makes myself and my husband happy far more than what is considered proper. Do you understand, Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock did nothing more than nod silently.

“And as such, Mr Holmes,” She paused to pluck a thread from her gown, “as a man who also… seeks out the aberrant… I ask you if you will grant my husband, and therefore me, a boon.”

“Mrs Watson…”

“I rather think Mary would be more appropriate given the delicate nature of the matter we’re discussing… Sherlock.”

“I see,” Sherlock replied slowly, “or rather, I believe I do. However I am at a loss as to why you are approaching me when factors of your bearing and behaviour indicate to me that…” Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly as a flush rose on his cheeks and he glanced away, “… that for reasons I won’t go into here, tell me that… relations between you and your husband continue unabated.”

Mary’s eyes crinkled and she smiled at Sherlock’s discomfort, “Oh Sherlock, only you could be so blatant in your statements and yet still give the illusion of respecting my feminine sensibilities. Let us speak plainly, Sherlock. Yes, my husband still attends his obligations in our marital bed, and I don’t want or expect that will change. However, I’m not naïve enough to mistake the way he looks at you.” Mary stared unflinchingly as she lay her cards on the table.

“I don’t –“ Sherlock held up a hand to try and dispute the truth, eyes wide.

“No please, let me continue, I’m not blaming you… either of you.” Mary reached and took Sherlock’s upheld hand between her own, leaning forward in John’s chair, “My father, as you may know, was something of a specialist in areas of… the heart. When his papers were left to me, I came to believe, as he did at the end of his life, that a man cannot change his true nature and that in rare cases some men, very special… exceptional men are so filled with empathy for their fellows that his heart is too full to be restricted to the love of a single person. My John,” she paused and then corrected herself with careful emphasis, “our John, is such a man. You’ve seen his heart, how full it is of compassion for mankind. Is it any surprise that he has so much love in his heart that a single partner would not suffice?”

Sherlock’s brow was deeply furrowed as he blinked slowly, trying to align the words Mary was saying, the clear meaning, and the fact that what she was suggesting was anathema by any social measure, “You’re saying –“

“I’m saying, my very dear My Holmes, that I am, on my own unable to fulfil all my husband’s capacity to love. However, by some fortuitous happenstance, there is a strong, honourable, trustworthy person that he holds dear to his heart and that I find eminently suitable to meet those needs for which I lack the capacity,” and now Mary blushed too, “the… physical attributes to satisfy.”

They stared wordlessly at each other for long moments, both needing the silence to gather their thoughts before a hint of tears rose in Mary’s eyes and she whispered, “Will you do this for me, Sherlock? Not just for John, or for yourself. I fear for John’s health, his mental wellbeing if this need remains unsatisfied, and I simply couldn’t bear to lose him”

Sherlock looked down at where his hand was still grasped between Mary’s strong ones and wondered if she could feel the subtle shaking in it. He was for a moment, breathless at her courage in coming to him, and it momentarily overcame the amazement that this unassuming woman was to all intents and purposes, offering him everything he’d always wanted.

“I can’t promise –“ Sherlock managed huskily.

“I’m not asking for promises, Sherlock. There’s never any guarantees,” a single tear rolled down her cheek, “I’m just asking you to try not to hurt him, and if you don’t trust yourself to follow your heart, then follow his. He has such a big heart, and it needs both of us to keep it whole. Let me be the wife society needs him to have, the mother of his children, and soft arms to lose himself in. I know he’ll look to you for excitement, danger, and the freedom to ask for things he feels would shock me.”

Sherlock released a shaky breath, “And would they… Mrs Watson.”

She smiled back wryly, “Probably not, but then, you’ve already deduced that… Mr Holmes.”

**

The next time John came to Baker Street it was early evening. He found Sherlock standing on the sidewalk, looking up at where acrid black smoke was billowing out of their first floor window. Stepping up to stand at his side, he matched the tilt of his friends head and asked, “Experiment?”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock nodded, a frown etched on his face, “the chemicals must have been tainted.” He turned to glance down at John, _slight tension in the shoulders, overnight case dropped at his feet, Mary’s talked to him then_ , “Dinner?”

John turned to look up, eyes wide and skittish, “Yeah,” he glanced down at the case, “I’ll just –“

“Drop it in the foyer, Watson. We can take it up when we come home.”

**

Sherlock pushed the vegetables around his plate, making vague, artistic trails in the thin gravy. On the opposite side of the table, John stabbed at his peas with more force than necessary and did rather more throat clearing than appropriate in someone not suffering Tuberculosis.

Finally, Sherlock dropped his fork with a clatter, “Oh this is unbearable, Watson. Can we find _nothing_ to talk about?”

“Sorry, yes,” John stuttered a moment before adding, rather redundantly, “sorry,” before lapsing back to silence.

Sherlock sighed and motioned to the waiter for the bill, “Let’s walk then, take some night air before returning home.” He pushed his chair away from the table and stood.

“Perhaps that might be helpful, blow the cobwebs out, so to speak,” John held the door as Sherlock passed by him into the night, settling his top hat as he did so.

**

“You realise nothing needs happen, John,” They stood side by side on the boating lake bridge within Regent’s Park. Sherlock’s voice was low to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard should anyone walk by, even this late at night.

“I know,” John murmured back, picking at flaking paint on the handrail, “of course, it’s not that I don’t –“

“You’ve…” Sherlock danced around the words, “… In the past.”

“No… Yes… I…” John sighed, and continued his gentle destruction of London public property, “During the war, you understand…”

“Yes,” replied Sherlock quickly, “of course.”

“No, Holmes, nothing like that. Well, not quite. Patients, you see, sometimes…”

“I see…”

“Let me finish, because you probably don’t… see, I mean.” John frowned, his lips pursing thoughtfully, “It’s a terrible time for our boys, over there. What happens to them, emotionally, physically. And remember, they’re grown men, with… habits… private habits. On occasion, disabilities, injuries would deprive them of their hands, or freedom of movement and,” John coughed, “well, on occasion, one would ask for… a hand, so to speak.”

“And you’d oblige?” Sherlock murmured softly back, tone free of judgement.

“There wasn’t anything sexual in it,” when John glanced up to see a sceptical look on Sherlock’s face he swiftly added, “No, there wasn't… Well, not beyond… look, it’s complicated. You don’t understand, Holmes, you can’t possibly. They never touched me back, that would have been…” He risked another glance, “inappropriate. It was just doing what needed to be done.”

Sherlock smiled wryly and ventured, “So you got nothing out of it whatsoever?”

John thought back to those quiet nights, the hushed sound of heavy breathing in what little privacy a drawn curtain could provide. The satiated look of relief that accompanied a stifled noise and the gratitude clear in a young man’s eyes for the gentle touch of a caring hand. John had never accepted an offer of reciprocation, but as he stood there in the dark, flushed and hard, he’d wanted, Oh how he’d wanted. But he’d always excused himself to content himself with the remembrance of the noises of other men’s pleasure.

John sighed and lifted his eyes to the dark skies, trying to get his errant emotions under control before admitting, “Memories, Holmes, only memories for dark and lonely nights.”

Without a word, Sherlock silently shifted his hand the sparse inches separating them and lay his over John’s on the railing. A small intimacy in a public place, leaning close he whispered, “John…”

John hissed an indrawn breath and jerked away from where Sherlock’s lips were so close to his ear, “Not here,” he muttered, and snatched his hand away, “are you _mad_?”

Sherlock glanced around at the deserted park and smiled, whispering, “Where’s that thirst for danger that I find so intoxicating? But perhaps you’re correct, perhaps now I have you in a more amenable mood, we should continue this at Baker Street? Provide you with some more memories for those dark and lonely nights?”

John looked up to where Sherlock’s eyes glinted in the meagre gaslight stepped in closer than he ought and as the bulging fronts of their trousers made the slightest of contact in the shadows of the darkened bridge he murmured huskily, “Please.”

**

Sherlock willed his hand not to tremble as he slotted the key in the lock of 221 Baker Street, praying that Mrs Hudson would already be abed as he guided John through the door with a hand firmly on the small of his back.

As John bent to retrieve his suitcase from the foyer, Sherlock hissed roughly, “leave it,” as he pushed the shorter man toward the stairs with clear intent.

John couldn’t stifle a rough chuckle at Sherlock’s eagerness as he took the stairs two at a time and through the door to their sitting room, unsurprised to see the lanky detective hot on his heels, closing and firmly securing the door behind him.

“There,” he said, as he double checked the lock, “wouldn’t do to have unexpected visitors in the morning.”

“No indeed,” John’s moustache lifted as he smiled broadly before stepping forward to crowd Sherlock against the door, “we have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

Sherlock’s breath caught as John pressed against him from chest to thigh and their erections pressed, obvious even through layers of winter tweed, “I’ve heard you have something of a reputation, Doctor Watson… Something about _three continents_ , wasn’t it?”

“There’s only one undiscovered country I’m interested in tonight, and that’s yours Holmes,” John rasped roughly.

Sherlock went still at John’s words, staring down into John’s flushed face and dilated pupils before his mouth twitched, lifted at the corners, and an aborted laugh burst from his lips. Raising his hand to his mouth to suppress any further outburst, he looked down, eyes crinkling, “Oh, John! I’m sorry…” He chuckled again, settling his hands at John’s waist, “ _Undiscovered country_ you’re interested in. I’m…” He snorted again, “that’s… _please_ tell me that line’s never worked for you?”

John’s face did something complicated, shifting through confusion, offence, and embarrassment before finally, thankfully his expression lifted at the carefree joy alight in Sherlock’s eyes and he joined him in easy laughter.

“That really was well below par, wasn’t it?” John lay a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, eyes sparking, “Let’s try this instead, then.”

John pressed in again, tipping up on the balls of his feet and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, effectively cutting off the last of a chuckle and Sherlock tensed beneath his mouth with a gasp.

“Better?” He asked pulling back a little.

“Much…” Sherlock murmured, all signs of humour gone from his voice, “Again?”

“Gladly,” John pushed forward again, tugging Sherlock’s full lower lip between his own and sucking gently, lipping at the smooth flesh for long minutes until Sherlock caught on and started to mirror the action. _Fast learner, as expected_.

Sherlock’s fingers fisted in the woolen fabric of John’s coat as he leaned forward, seemingly wanting to pull the shorter man closer than physical limits would allow. With a deep growl he rumbled against John’s mouth, “Off; take your coat off.”

John took a quick glance at the detective, at the high flush on his cheeks contrasting with his eyes, the usually light ring almost consumed with the dark pupils. “Steady on, old boy. Plenty of time.”

“Off!” Sherlock repeated, fingers moving to John’s buttons as John’s hands covered his own.

“Alright…” John chuckled, “I know better than to argue with you. Draw the curtains while I hang this up.”

Sherlock moved away somewhat reluctantly, before finally crossing the room and tugging the blinds closed. Turning back, he found himself confronted with the broad line of John’s back, clad now only in shirt sleeves as he reached to fold them over the back of his chair. The dense white cotton fabric pulled taught and curved to outline the strong shoulder muscles and arms.

He must have made some sort of a noise because John lifted his head and turned sharply toward him, sudden concern in his eyes, “Sherlock?”

As he steadied himself on the edge of the desk he replied shakily, “I’m fine, truly I am, it all just became suddenly… very real indeed.”

Echoing Sherlock’s words from earlier in the evening, John approached and lay a hand on the detective’s arm, “Nothing need happen, you know that, yes? I’m perfectly content to continue just as we always have.”

A brief look of dismay entered Sherlock’s eyes and he shook his head definitively, “No, I want this. It’s only that,” the blush rose high in his cheeks again, “I feel somewhat at a loss as to how things will proceed from here… John.” His name slipped slowly out as if Sherlock were again testing out the feel of the word against his tongue.

John ran his hand gently up and down Sherlock’s arm, “Slowly, Sherlock; they’ll proceed slowly. For all my experience as a married man, this will be new to me too. I told you of my experiences in the army and that is the entirety of it. Let me simply say that my intention is to bring you joy and that, in turn, will give me the greatest pleasure.”

“John…” Sherlock whispered, clearly drowning in all the possibilities that filled his mind.

“Let us retire to your room, my _dear_ Sherlock,” John’s hand drifted down until finally it was clasping Sherlock’s own, “and we can progress one small step at a time.”

A wordless nod and an answering clasp of his fingers was all the confirmation John needed to tug him down the hall.

**

There was something altogether peculiar, Sherlock thought, about the way disrobing in front of a man you intended to become intimate with differed from disrobing for purely practical purposes. His arms suddenly felt too long, and his fingers seemed oddly stiff as they worked buttons and laces free. It made no logical sense, he told himself, the mechanical function of –

“Are you still alright? You’ve gone very quiet, my dear man.” John’s voice startled Sherlock back into the room, and he opened his eyes to find John standing quietly in front of him, brow furrowed worriedly.

Nodding numbly, he returned to his buttons, cursing the way his normally nimble fingers refused to cooperate And staring down at his shirt..

Perhaps sensing something of Sherlock’s anxiety, John murmured quiet endearments, to low to even make out the words and gently covered Sherlock’s fingers with his own, slowly guiding the buttons through the holes, one at a time, pausing between each to allow Sherlock to gain a measure of calm at the movements.

“I feel like some sort of foolish, blushing bride, “ Sherlock mumbled, clearly angry at his own trembling clumsiness.

“Not at all, my dear man, I take your hesitation as an indication of the depth of your feeling regarding the importance of this moment,” John tugged Sherlock’s fingers up to lay a soft kiss to the knuckles. “No-one else has ever seen you so adrift, and I am almost overcome that you would let me see you so.”

Sherlock looked up without raising his head, making him look unaccountably young to John’s eyes, “You mean that,” He said, wonderingly, “you truly think no less of me?”

“Oh Sherlock,” John boldly pressed both palms flat against the bare skin of Sherlock’s chest, rosy nipples bracketed between spread fingers, “I think rather it would be impossible to think more of you,” he looked up eyes serious, “will you let me show you? Will you let me show you the depth of my feelings for you?”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, taking strength from John’s calm confidence and rose to his full height, glancing to the side where his bed awaited them and then back, decisively nodding and raising a hand to cup John’s cheek, “Yes, let’s to bed, John.”

**

Sherlock could have screamed in frustration. Each small movement John made was measured, he inched forward as if he were stalking prey. Constantly checking Sherlock’s eyes for signs of doubt, with Doctorly concern etched in his face.

If he’d known that his trembling first steps would be followed by these consequences, he’d not have been so quick to reveal his inexperience.

The trouble was, the detective thought, this wasn’t what either of them wanted. Sherlock, now committed to his course wanted to simply cast himself off from the shore into the tumultuous storm of the ocean and face the challenges like a bold adventuring pirate, come what may.

And he knew John was holding himself back. Simmering below the surface, clear for Sherlock to deduce was the soldier he knew John to be. Trained, prepared and simply awaiting the call to arms.

But instead of the experienced, confident lover Sherlock had expected, hoped, to have push his limits and leave him wrecked, and ruined, and sated, he had instead the careful, methodical, society doctor. Full of compassionate care and diligent bedside manner.

This, Sherlock thought with an inward sigh, is the John that takes his wife to bed. Careful, attentive, verging on submissive. With despair, he realised that he was failing Mary, failing all three of them. This wouldn't calm the tumult inside John, and would never satisfy the very need that Mary had sent him to quell.

And he was so quiet, Sherlock thought. While they both knew that with Mrs Hudson downstairs, and the house settled for the night, they would need to watch the sounds from upstairs, this was ridiculous. John was approaching the taking of Sherlock’s virginity with something like monastic worship.

No, he thought as John handled hiss cock like it was the finest eggshell china , this isn’t how I imagined this at all.

“John,” he whispered, venturing a hand down the Doctor’s flank.

“Shhh, just relax and let me take care of you,” John murmured, kissing Sherlock gently on the lips before going back to his silent manipulation.

Regardless of how annoying the entire situation was, it was clear that John was determined for Sherlock to reach his climax, and equally clear that Sherlock’s physiology was along for the ride. Sherlock’s pot of Vaseline lay open on the side table and John’s touch was so novel to Sherlock’s inexperienced skin that the outcome was a foregone conclusion.

Sherlock tried one last time to reach and take hold of John’s own neglected erection before being hushed by John again with a shake of the head and reassurance that he wanted to ‘ _take care of him_.’ Shortly after, with John’s hand over his mouth to muffle any cry that might escape, Sherlock stuttered and pulsed and John murmured encouraging words that felt altogether too clinical and not at all satisfying.

The only bright spot of the evening turned out to be the opportunity to watch surreptitiously as John took himself in hand, stroking briskly before tidily ejaculating into his own fist to limit the mess he then wiped up with his discarded shirt.

As the two men settled to sleep, having hardly broken a sweat or raised their heart rate, Sherlock despaired for the future of their nascent sexual relationship.

**

Sherlock awoke the following morning to the hushed sounds of John talking to Mrs Hudson, lifting his head he strained to make out the words.

“ _Yes, nasty cold, that’s all.”_

_“…alright… All weather… Best…”_

_“Yes, I’ll stay a few days, just to ensure he gets sufficient rest.”_

_“… Tea… Lemon… Rest.”_

_“Of course, I’ve already sent a message to Mary. Best you leave our meals at the door, I wouldn't want you to catch anything.”_

_“… Cough… Turner… Later.”_

There was silence and then the sound of a door closing, followed by the musical clatter of China rattling on a tray as John approached the bedroom door.

“I wondered if you’d wake, how are you feeling, dear chap?” John smiled over the cups and plates from the doorway as if nothing at all unusual had happened the previous night .

“All the better for seeing you, and hearing you plan to spend the day,” Sherlock answered, pushing himself up to sitting heedless of the way the sheets puddled around his bare torso.

“Sorry, I should have said yesterday when I arrived, Mary told our friends that I’ll be helping you with an investigation all week,” he paused and then added with less assurance, “is that alright?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he cleared his throat, “Yes, of course, yes. I’d never presume to expect you to stay that long. In the future Mary will, of course, take priority.”

John sighed in the doorway and placed the tray carefully on the dresser before coming to the bed and crawling onto it, straddling Sherlock’s prone form with his own and letting the sides of Sherlock’s borrowed robe part to reveal his naked form beneath, “Now listen,” he started firmly, “Mary obviously didn't make it clear, so I’m going to. There won’t be any priority in this arrangement. I have Mary, and I have you. Mary is more than content with this arrangement and is far happier knowing that when I am at home with her, she has my full attention and devotion. You’d be surprised how many of her lady friends bemoan the burden of an unhappy husband under their feet. So there will be no more talk about which of you I favour more. For God’s sake, man,” John’s voice dropped, rough with suppressed anger, “did I not make it clear what you mean to me last night? Do I have to show you again?”

At John’s outburst, Sherlock had shrunk back a little into the pillows, the force of emotion in the words and John’s bearing left no room for argument. Frustration had tinged John’s chest and cheeks red and passion had balled his fists in the sheets at Sherlock’s waist.

“Yes, _please_ ,” Sherlock gasped.

“What,” John asked, confused.

“Show me again, please,” He begged, desperate to keep John from reverting to the passive lover he’d been the night before, “Show me what I mean to you, right now. God… _please_!”

With a groan, John took in Sherlock’s wide, glittering eyes, the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he pulled in ragged breaths and the way the sheet had tented at his groin.

“God, yes,” John managed roughly as he leaned forward to sink his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, messy and unkempt with the previous day's coat of Macassar, pulling their lips harshly together.

“John,” Sherlock ground out under his mouth, “yes, this, John… like this… I need this,” Sherlock moaned as John’s fingers tightened in his hair, tugging well past the point of gentle, “Oh! That,” he managed, “dear God… Yes, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

“Damnation,” John shuffled forward on his knees, pressing himself forward trapping Sherlock between him and the headboard and crowding against him, all signs of the gentleness from the night before gone without a trace. Leaving one hand fisted in the taller man’s hair and circling the other behind his neck, guiding his movements and preventing Sherlock from moving away, John muttered “this is…”

Sherlock’s arm came up to press a hand at the small of John’s back, encouraging him to rut against him, and John could feel the urgent press of Sherlock’s own erection pressing hard and unforgiving between them, urgent and demanding, “Show me…” He rasped out, “Show me, John.”

“Hellfire, Sherlock, I want…” John leaned his forehead against Sherlock, eyes squeezed shut as he canted his hips against Sherlock’s tight abdomen.

Sherlock panted, sweat beginning to bead on both their forehead’s and roll down their joined faces, “That’s it, John… let go. Let me see the real you, show me how you want it to be between us.”

John groaned low and rough and after another hard press of his hand against the back of Sherlock’s neck, he pulled his face away and spat obscenely into his palm, wriggling backward just enough to align their groins and wrap his hand around them both, throwing his head back at the first touch.

“Oh… Oh God help me,” he whined brokenly, hand moving jerkily against them both until Sherlock encircled his fingers with his own, creating an unbroken ring where their cocks slid against each other with wet, filthy noises as the rhythmic movements continued.

“This…” John managed, opening his eyes and staring deep into Sherlock’s as they sought release together, “this is what I need… Partners, equals,” John paused and grabbed a gasping breath as their rhythm began to falter, “knowing you’ll keep up with me, whatever I want.”

Sherlock nodded shakily, bottom lip caught between his teeth to suppress a shout of unbridled joy that threatened to explode from his chest, staring into John’s blue eyes as they hurtled toward the cliff edge of orgasm together.

“You don’t have to be gentle with this, John… with me. I don’t _want_ it…” Sherlock bucked against him and tightened his fingers, “…I don’t _need_ it. I know you, John Watson, I know who _we_ are, and I want all of it. I want to give you it all, and I’ll take anything you can throw at me and be glad of it”

John growled, actually growled at Sherlock’s words, fingers tightening further and pulling Sherlock’s head to the side, allowing him to lick and suck at the long stretch of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock could feel the sharp sting of blood rising to bruise and gasped as he ground upward into their hands roughly.

“I’m yours, John. Body and soul,” he hissed, “brain and blood, and there’s nobody that you need explain this to.”

John moaned and Sherlock felt the moment that he finally gave himself over to his desires entirely. Shuffling forward on determined knees, John pressed himself forward impossibly harder, rutting with abandon, and Sherlock wondered in some distant part of his mind if his soldier had forgotten where he was, and who he was with until -

“Sherlock…” The name tumbled forth from his lips; a broken cry as John arched and spilled over their joined hands, followed by a stifled grunt as Sherlock followed him, staring into each other's eyes all the while, before seeking each other's mouths to prevent any further exclamation that Mrs Hudson may hear downstairs.

They sat there like that, pressed together and trembling, slick with sweat and release, panting and gasping, hearts thundering against each other for long minutes, until finally, John lowered his head to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, placing gentle kisses against the skin there as Sherlock leaned against the headboard, arms lax at John’s waist.

“That was…,” Sherlock finally managed.

“Different,” John relaxed in the taller man’s arms, seemingly too tired to move.

“Hmmmm?” Sherlock rumbled the question.

“I’ve never,” John shook his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, “just let myself go like that, it was… intense,” he finished.

Sherlock tensed slightly and looked down to where John’s face was turned away, “Is intense… Bad?”

“What?” John said quickly, lifting his head to look into Sherlock’s face, “No, it was good, it was _very_ good. Just, it’s not something I’ve ever been able to do, you understand?”

“No,” Sherlock frowned, “not really. I don’t have any comparison, you see.”

John’s uncertain frown matched Sherlock’s own, “And that bothers you?”

Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s damp hair before coming to rest at his cheek, “Not in the slightest. I may have been in the throes of passion, but I meant what I said, John. I want everything, but I have no desire to seek it from anyone but you. If that’s alright.”

John relaxed against Sherlock’s hand, the lines on his face easing into an easy smile, “Quite, my dear man, quite alright.”

**

Several months later and John wondered if the populous at large were, as Sherlock thought them, vacuous enough to miss the not-so-subtle change in Sherlock Holmes. There was a new ease to his manner. Quicker to laugh, more ready to engage, and slower to bite back at a foolish question. His gait was different too. He still carried himself with the aristocratic bearing of the well bred, but there was a rolling smoothness to his tread that John was sure wasn’t there before… well, _before_.

After the first couple of crime scenes, where John had been sure that some overt symbol of depravity must be inked on their faces, and he waited nervously for every passing person to confront them and brand them pariahs, his nervousness had started to calm. Even Mrs Hudson failed to remark on the frequency with which John elected to spend the night rather than go home, and slowly, finally John ceased jumping at every passing remark that could be construed as hiding judgement.

And so, gradually, normality returned. A new, better kind of normal, with carefully balanced duality that fulfilled his very soul. Truly blissful times with his darling, socially acceptable Mary. A life where she was free to pursue fulfilling, intense work with Mycroft, and came home to his strong supportive arms and solid bedrock of their marital home, and he spent quiet afternoons with roast dinners and was able to indulge his nighttime need to coddle, and cherish. At the same time, he had a life with his beloved, reckless detective; days of danger and risk, mixed with nights of passion and abandon. If he thought it wouldn’t be tempting fate, he’d feel guilty at his good fortune.

Any concern he’d felt that either Sherlock, or Mary, or both, may develop some feelings of jealousy had disappeared like so much smoke in the wind. Both his partners had never been happier and any awkwardness that he’d worried may occur when they happened to be in the same place had come to naught. In fact, it seemed that the topic of their shared Doctor gave them a common grounds from which they had begun to build a truly stable friendship.

As he watched, Sherlock straightened from his crouch at the side of the corpse, beckoning him over to point out some detail or other, and to consult his opinion. He grinned, carefree and joyous as he strode forward, already picturing the end of the case and the inevitable _celebration_ of a job well done.

Catching his look, Sherlock’s face lit with equal parts enthusiasm and wickedness. Sherlock had been increasingly adventurous and with his talent and enthusiasm for experimentation, he’s kept his promise to keep up with whatever John was willing to try. In fact, some nights it was John who almost balked at some of the more outlandish options Sherlock suggested.

But as John considered what that wicked grin might mean this time, he reflected that the key word in that thought… was _almost_.

**Fin**


End file.
